The Buckle
Jack Daniels whiskey label
That has you out aged
Stamped in the silver tombstone
Aboard your belt.
And the dust on your boots
Not yet time worn, or tattered with age
Almost as shiny as your youth
Behind those still driven eyes
embers of a fire
Burning in your belly
Flickering to flame
In your dilating pupils
If whiskey were all that
Touched the rim
Could you even hold
A steady hand
Keep it all down
Or would your young-blood
Reject all reason
If I were a Mixologist
I’d brand your innocence
With something frozen pink and fruity
Or perhaps your Ivy League smile
Would entice the monkey’s lunch
Milk could still do that body good
But behind my condescending smirk
And my time tailored thirty-something taste for whiskey
There is a little, Miss McGill
That wants to brew you tea
Boil your barley-teasing-twenty assets
And let them steep in the confines
Of a solid bed frame.
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